Down the walk from the barn Ezra was at this moment coming, shoulders bent against the storm, hat-brim trickling water. The rain was now slashing viciously, in pelting ribbons of gray water that drummed on the tin roof of the kitchen and danced in spatters on the walk.
Filhiol opened the door for Ezra, who peeled off his coat, and shook his wet hands.
“Great, creepin’ clams!” he puffed. “But this is some tidy wind, sir! These here Massachusetts storms can’t be beat, the way they pounce. An’ rain! Say! Must be a picnic somewhere nigh. Never rains like this unless there is one!”
The old man tried to smile, but joviality was lacking. He closed the door and came over to the stove. The doctor followed him.
“Ezra,” said he, “you don’t like me. No matter. You do like Captain Briggs, don’t you?”
“That ain’t a question as needs answerin’,” returned Ezra, with suspicious eyes.
“I like the captain, too,” continued Filhiol. “We’ve got to join hands to help him. And he’s in very, very serious trouble now.”
“Well, what is it?” The old servitor sensed what was in the wind, and braced himself to meet it.
“If it came to choosing between Hal and the captain, which would you stand by?”
“That’s another question that ain’t needed!” retorted Ezra defiantly.